Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Should be tight.

Footprints were a possibility; the weather’d been sticky. On the other hand, Jorge’d filled his shoes with rocks and dumped them in Edsviken Bay first thing the morning after.

The big danger: that Fahdi would start wondering. Check his shotgun. Discover residue or that shells were missing. Make a connection with the latest front-page news in the underworld.

Everyone was speculating. Theorizing. Analyzing. Abdulkarim suspected some john hadn’t been able to pay and was scared of being exposed. Freaked and cleared out the only ones who could mess up his life. Fahdi suspected other Yugos. There were rumors about internal disputes. Division in the bar Mafia. JW suspected other gangs. Speculated about market divisions within the city’s organized-crime scene to calm the war between the HA and the Bandidos.

Jorge kept a low profile. It was one thing to live on the lam after a nonviolent escape from a prison sentence for a drug conviction. Totally different to be on the run for a double homicide.

His hope: that no trails led to him.

Nevertheless: Jorge wished he could send Radovan a greeting. Just so the Yugo’d know who was after him and why. Message: This is just the beginning, repayment for whatever you’ve done with Nadja and what you did to me.

A stroke of good bloodbath juju-the laptop he’d grabbed’d survived his plug pulling. The battery’d kicked in. A stroke of bad bloodbath juju-log-in info was needed to rouse it from sleep mode: control/alt/delete, user name and password. Jorge couldn’t get in. Needed help.

Cock.

Maybe he could find some hacker who could do it-break into Stockholm’s now most wanted computer.

But not today. Today, he was gonna see Paola.

On his way to see her, the first time since he’d busted out. Longest period they’d ever gone without seeing each other. She’d visited him at Österåker a couple of months before he cut loose. Complained that he’d gotten cocky. Didn’t she understand the environment he was in?

Jorge didn’t dare boost cars anymore. More scared of police checkpoints than ever. Before he’d shot the pimp and the brothel madam-if the cops collared him, he’d be sent right back inside. Hardly get any add-on for the break. He’d kept it so clean, after all. Sin violence, sin crime, sin anything to pin on him. The worst that could happen was that he had to sit out the rest of his time without the possibility of parole. But now, after the shots’d been fired in Hallonbergen, it was a different story. If they got him, he could be sent away for life. His earlier fear of being busted appeared ridiculous. Now it was serious.

Still, when Paola’d texted him, he hadn’t been able to stay home any longer. He needed the calm. Needed the connection with his other half.

How’d Paola gotten his cell phone number? He didn’t know of anyone who could’ve given it to her. Possibly Sergio. In that case, it was a danger. She couldn’t have his number, for her own sake. He had to get a new one.

He rode public transportation. Even bought a ticket. No more turnstile hurdling.

Got off at the Liljeholmen subway stop.

The concrete station had been renovated. According to Jorge: without improvement. The train he’d been riding on had Norsborg as its final destination and he needed to go toward Fruängen. Had to wait five minutes for the transfer.

He stood at the end of the platform. Liked the area. The few yards the train often didn’t reach when it stopped. A wasteland, an abandoned appendix, a solitary, forgotten slice of the public transit jungle. Alkies pissing on the tracks, gangs juxing kids for their phones, couples making love, rats and pigeons making shit. Most of all, sprayers attacking the cement gloom with their colorful tags. The subway sentinels didn’t care; the families with small kids stood in the middle of the platform, so they wouldn’t have to run if a short train rolled in.

The train to Fruängen pulled in. Jorge got on.

The driver’s voice bellowed over the sound system: “This train is going to Fruängen.” Jorge recognized the voice, the chill African accent; he’d ridden with this driver before. Jorge laughed out loud. Thought, Is Daddy Boastin driving the cars? Subway man sounded just like the rapper.

Hägersten-Västertorp, to be exact, was approaching. He glimpsed Störtloppsvägen near the public pool. Soon he’d get to see Paola.

The working-class area was idyllic compared to Jorge’s Sollentuna hood. The public pool, in yellow brick with marble sculptures out front, lay like a cozy meeting spot in the middle of it all.

He walked toward Paola’s apartment building.

Hit the key code she’d texted him.

The elevator didn’t work. He took the stairs, thought about JW. Good guy. A friend. Jorge felt close to him. Had opened up to him a few days ago and talked about his debt of gratitude. Told the upperclass slick, “I’ve never been saved by anyone before. I would’ve died out there.” He could tell that JW’d been moved. “If you hadn’t come.”

He reached the top floor.

Waited a few breaths.

Rang the doorbell.

And then there she was. Over a year since they’d last seen each other. Tear in her eye. More beautiful than he remembered. Heftier.

They hugged/embraced/cried.

She smelled good.

They had a seat in the kitchen on her wooden chairs. Two posters on the wall: Che Guevara on one and an abstract painting by Servando Cabrera Moreno on the other.

Paola put water on to boil for tea.

Jorge thought her hair gleamed. Black as coal, darker than his, even though his was dyed. He saw her face anew. There were similarities with their father. But something was wrong. Even though the tears’d dried, she seemed sad.

“How’s Mama?” The Chilean accent stronger than usual, normal s sounds, a softer tone than Spanish Spanish.

“As usual. Her shoulders hurt. Wonders what you’re doing, and why.”

She poured water into two mugs. Dipped a tea bag in one.

“You can tell her I feel wonderful and am doing what I gotta do.”

“Whattya mean ‘gotta do’? You’re intelligent; you could’ve finished your time and then started studying.”

She fished out the tea bag. Dunked it in the other mug. Was enough to at least add some color to the water.

Jorge thought she did everything so slowly.

“Cut it out, Paola. Let’s not fight. I make my choices. Everyone can’t live like you. I love you; you know that. Tell Mama I said so, too.”

“I accept your choices. But you’re hurting Mama; you’ve got to understand that. She thought you were gonna get it together after school. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t understand your world. She gets sad anyway. Can’t you see her?”

“I can’t now. I have to get my life in order. Things aren’t safe now. Nothing’s safe.”

They let the subject drop. Paola sat quietly for a minute.

Then she told him about her studies. Her life: a boyfriend who wasn’t working out, involvement in the literature society, friends who were gonna study abroad in Manchester. A well-organized life. A normal life. For Jorge, it was exotic. She asked Jorge about his curly hair, dark skin color, crooked nose. He laughed.

“You already know the answer. I’m living on the run. Didn’t you recognize me?”

She smiled.

In Jorge’s head: flashbacks. Him and her at the Liseberg amusement park in Gothenburg when they’d visited Mama’s sister in Hisingen. Spent a day in Gothenburg. He, maybe seven years old, Paola maybe twelve. They wanted to ride on the Flumride, the number-one attraction, and had to lie about his age in order for him to be let on. Paola’s arms around him in the plastic boat that looked like a hollowed-out tree trunk. Slowly upward. In his ear, in Spanish, so the others in the log wouldn’t understand, she whispered, “If you don’t promise to be good, I’ll let you go.” Jorge, terrified. But at the same time not. He thought he understood. Turned around. Paola’s smile-she was kidding. Jorge laughed.